Friday, February 10, 2012

Sometimes when my brain is behaving like a social mercenary, I say things that I might not have meant to say or that come out all wrong because my veil of discretion has been lit on fire or napalmed or destroyed in a way that requires 24-48 hours of monk-like silence from me during its repairs--lest I say things that will inevitably drive me further from the opposite sex unintentionally or frighten children and weak-minded individuals within earshot. Today is one of those days. Here's how I know.

In the elevator this morning, I ran into two neighbors that I've never seen before, despite the fact that they live on my floor. As elevator conversation makes me awkward and uncomfortable and I don't particularly care for anyone on my floor (what?! I know I'm misanthropic!), I was resigned to staring at my shoes and remaining silent, until one of the men spoke up.

"I haven't seen you here before, are you new to the building?" This emanation came from the second neighbor.

"No, I've been here a while." I just don't like to leave my apartment if I don't have to, is all.

"Oh," said his friend.

"I wonder why we haven't run into each other," said my apparent neighbor. He looked perplexed and/or stoned.

And before I even realized what I was saying, this happened: "Because I'm sneaky," I said.

They looked at me with a mixture of what I would say was confusion and uncertainty.

"Sneaky?" Neighbor #1 asked.

"Yes. Stealthy, too." The elevator reached the first floor and I stepped out. They exited behind me, somewhat cautiously.

"So, I guess we'll see you around," said Neighbor #2.

"Or... you won't see me. But I'll see you." I eyed them suspiciously and rounded the corner to pick up my mail. In retrospect, I have no idea what possessed me to respond in such a way, but admittedly at the time, it felt like the right thing to do. I don't think there's a whole lot of harm done, especially because I am now more comfortable knowing that there are two less neighbors who would potentially knock on my door to ask to borrow something and judge me for being drunk and pantsless at 7 p.m. on a weekday or wandering around my kitchen with a hedgehog on my shoulder.

Friday, February 3, 2012

On my way into work today, I witnessed a portly, hairy fellow in a kilt walking into the strip club next door. Here's how my brain processed this:

"That guy is NO JOKE in a kilt going into a strip club. I bet the strippers all know him as Kilt Guy and I would put money on the fact that they are sufficiently creeped out by the fact that there is only a manskirt between them and Kilt Guy's junk. I hope he is at least hygienic, though I'll allow myself the luxury of judging that due to the fact that he is entering a strip club solo and kilted up at one in the afternoon, he is not hygienic. I wonder why they don't make that a requirement to get into strip clubs. You should have to show your ID and that you have washed your hands before coming in. They could even have a special hand sanitizer pump when you walk in, like, "Please disinfect your hands before touching the strippers." AND, you could put glitter in the hand sanitizer so the strippers wouldn't mind even more, because not only do you have clean hands, but you have clean and sparkly hands! So then the strippers would know who had clean hands and who didn't, because if push came to shove and I had to be a stripper, I would at least insist on widespread usage of disinfectant. But, I would also not allow any creepy Kilt Guy near me. In fact, I probably wouldn't want any creepy guy near me, which I think would make me a rather poor, useless and ineffective stripper. Although... I bet they get discounts on hot wings."

And just like that, I want hot wings for dinner and a market for strip club disinfectant.